"It's 2:24 a.m. again. My favorite hour to wrestle with . Like clockwork - every damn night - I'm flat on my back, staring at the corners of my mahogany nightstand and the reflections bouncing off my Chanel bottles. Jerry's still snoozing beside the bed, his back turned, the Vegas strip light dancing across his fur while his little fan hums like a lullaby for broken promises. Nineteen years old, half-deaf, dreaming of chicken. Time, to him, is irrelevant."
"I try breathing exercises, counting backwards, imagining waves or cake, but even my imaginary waves are noisy. "Oh God," I mutter, "I'm fucking lonely." If loneliness had an emoji, it'd be that melting-face one. Half crying, half Botoxed. I turn fifty next year. Jesus. Wasn't it 1997 just five minutes ago? Back when turning thirty felt like the apocalypse? The years don't glide; they stumble. Somewhere between bills and hyaluronic acid, you stop being seen the way you used to."
"I tell myself I'm shy, but that's a lie. I'm not shy; I'm cautious. I follow unspoken rules. Every morning, I armor up like a performer: a kabuki artist with a pharmacy budget. Lately, it's Dr. Perricone's No Makeup Makeup foundation in shade "Golden," painting bravery onto my skin. Daily shave, double layer of No Makeup, contour, bronzer. All in all, it was enough to confuse me and the lazy eye."
A woman lies awake late at night, unable to sleep while her nineteen-year-old dog sleeps blissfully. She envies the dog's oblivion as her thoughts loop through regrets and loneliness. She practices breathing and counting but remains painfully aware of approaching fifty and the erosion of visibility that comes with time and cosmetic maintenance. She adopts elaborate grooming and makeup rituals—foundation, contour, bronzer, shaving—and arranges sanitizers and lotions to sculpt flattering illusions. She curates clothing and lighting to be passable, treating appearance as a defensive performance and a form of survival amid solitude and aging.
Read at Advocate.com
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